


PC-001

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maria Hill starts at S.H.I.E.L.D.  There are forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PC-001

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> Written for **reeby10** , for the MCU Ladies’ Ficathon Exchange and her prompt “Maria on her first day at SHIELD.” She also asked, amid other requests, for possible Maria/Sitwell; my apologies, Reeby – this is as close as I could come.
> 
> The first day in a new working environment is always strange. Not much usually happens, except you fill in a lot of forms, and you meet a gazillion new co-workers whose names you can't remember by the time you get home. And you have no idea what, among the things you come across, may turn out to be important down the road.
> 
> Many, many thanks to **brickhousewriter** for helping me make this better.

The building covers almost the entire island, with the Potomac surrounding it on all sides like a moat.

Getting off the bus across from the causeway that leads up the Triskelion, Maria stops for a moment to look at the thing and to order her thoughts. Roughly, they come out like this:

  1. How come I never noticed this building before? Cloaking technology?
  2. Don’t be an idiot, Maria. There’s a bus stop here.
  3. Not many windows, except at the top. Bet no one gets a window office except top brass.
  4. Wonder how many women are up there? Probably none.
  5. Why the hell am I quitting the Pentagon again?
  6. Oh yes. No women on the top floors there. Ceiling made of shatter-proof glass, reinforced with see-through resin and…



_Ouch._

“Oh, sh _…._ My apologies, sir.” 

She should probably have watched where she was going when she started walking again. Maria looks up – no, _down_ – at the man she’s just managed to walk into. He’s shorter than she is (even though she’s not wearing heels today) and looks vaguely Hispanic. Sharp eyes, gold-rimmed glasses; he’ll probably be bald before he’s thirty. 

“No worries, that was probably my fault,” he says automatically, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and turns to cross the street.

 _Great. He’s headed for S.H.I.E.L.D. Hopefully not her new boss?_  

Maria straightens out the strap of her briefcase on her shoulder and follows the bald man as he heads towards the bridge. There’s a strong wind whistling down the river, and it occurs to her that this part of the walk will be wicked on those days when winter has the audacity to descend on Washington. 

It doesn’t take the man long to notice she’s right behind him.

“Looks like we’re heading the same way,” he says, slowing down a little so she can catch up. His voice is a bit warmer, she notices. “You work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

Maria gives him a second look. Is this some kind of a test? Is she supposed to say _yes_ , or should she deny ever having heard of the agency that she hadn’t even known existed, until she talked to that recruiter? 

Honesty is the best policy, she figures. Besides, the offer is still conditional. Here’s hoping her voice won’t shake, betraying how much she wants this job. 

“Not yet,” she replies. “I think I need to fill in a bunch of forms first, and pass muster.  If I get lucky, they hire me.” 

The man’s smile is almost genuine now, and he holds out his hand.

“Ah yes, those forms. Anything from the Oath of Allegiance to agreeing not to set fire to your locker -- I remember. Sitwell. Jasper Sitwell. And you are?”

His shake is firm.

“Maria Hill. Naval intelligence.” 

Sitwell shakes his head.

“Surprised they let you leave for S.H.I.E.L.D. They don’t like us in the Pentagon, God knows why. Probably our success rate, and because we’re not _uniform_ enough.” 

He chuckles at his pun.  Maria gives a polite smile but says nothing in response, mostly because they’ve entered the building, and the front lobby is literally robbing her of breath. Open and expansive, the space is filled with light. Glass ceiling ...  Here’s hoping that’s not some kind of karmic joke, given where she's just been.

A huge black, vaguely Germanic-looking eagle dominates the center, and there are people purposefully rushing in various directions, seemingly unconcerned that it may fall on their head. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” 

“The eagle?” She doesn’t really want to admit it, but yes it is, and Maria can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to wear it on a uniform. _Stern, sleek, simple yet imposing…_  

“No, the building.” He adds, diffidently, “The eagle is just a bird. Anyway, Personnel is that way. Assuming that’s where you need to go.” 

Sitwell points at a corridor to the right of a big reception desk. 

“Suggest you check in first with reception, though; you don’t want to wander around without a badge here. The walls have guns.” 

He cackles at his own joke and peels off to the left, before she has a chance to thank him.

 

…..

 

The next three hours are an endless parade of forms and questionnaires -- more than Maria can remember ever seeing in one place before, even for her clearances for military intelligence: Medical and psych history; Confirmation of Religious, Political or Other Affiliation; Consent to Disclosure of Criminal Record; Next of Kin Registration.  A polygraph test.  (Maria hates polygraph tests.)

Then there is something called a “PC-001,” which, based on the questions it asks, seems to assume that everyone filing it in is a straight white male. Maria finds herself getting uncharacteristically annoyed. She randomly puts down things like “Mata Hari,” “Druid (Woodland)” and “42” before remembering that intelligence agencies aren’t usually known for their sense of humour; she erases the “42” and instead writes “testosterone.” There. Better.

Physical tests are mercifully short. Biometrics, fitness – those punching bags come in handy -- and blood type. (“Just in case, dear!” the nurse says, although in case of _what_ is not made clear.) When it’s over, Maria watches three vials of her blood being carried off to an unknown fate -- tests for rabies? Iron levels? Alien DNA? 

Finally, a pudgy, chinless man invites her to step into a tiny office adjacent to medical. His badge says ‘Koenig’; how he passed any of the mandatory fitness tests is a mystery. 

“Congratulations,” Koenig beams, and exchanges her visitor badge for a new one. The holographic image of the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle shimmers in all colors of the rainbow, over a photograph Maria doesn’t remember anyone taking. 

“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Commander Hill. Given your extensive prior experience and your test results, Director Fury has requested to discuss your assignment with you personally. He will be free to see you at two p.m. I suggest you not be late; he is not a patient man.” 

His smile disappears. He is done.

“In the meantime, the cafeteria is on the mezzanine level.” 

It doesn’t look like he will be able – or willing -- to provide any more hints on her assignment, which she finds rather odd.  Isn't that what HR people are for?  And the Director discussing her assignment with her personally? Based on past experience this is not usually good.  ("Congratulations, Ensign.  You have been assigned to the _U.S.S. Roosevelt_.  She sails for Antarctica tomorrow.")

Maria takes her leave with an insincere smile. She isn’t particularly hungry, but there may be value in observing the local working culture. She nods her thanks at the receptionist outside and heads for the stairs. 

The cafeteria overlooks the lobby, and is filled with light from the glass ceiling in the entrance. People seem to be sitting mostly in groups (teams? cliques?). Some give her a measuring look; most ignore her. One thing isn’t lost on Maria: The majority are men. 

“Hill!” a voice calls out to her as she takes her tray with the plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, apple and boxed milk into the sitting area. “Come hang with the cool kids.” 

Sitwell, the guy from the bus stop, is beaming at her over his glasses from one end of a table in the center of the cafeteria, motioning her to sit down. He introduces his three companions by one, pointing at them with his chin. 

“This is Hill. She’s new. Let me introduce you to three of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s finest: Rumlow, Garrett and Rollins. You got your assignment yet, Hill?” 

Two of the three look like bruisers – men used to throwing their weight around. Rumlow practically undresses her with his eyes; Rollins seems a bit of a dead fish. The third goes on an instant charm offensive, enveloping her in a grin that could charm the habit off a nun.

“Good to meat you, Hill,” he says. (Or at least, that's what Maria hears.)  “With any luck you’ll be assigned to my training squad. I’m starting a new class on Monday.” 

“You can do better,” a low, voice whispers behind her. Maria whips around, almost causing her apple to roll off the tray; people don’t usually manage to sneak up on her like that. 

The owner of the voice is a tiny, five-four Asian woman, whose size can’t conceal the fact that she’s a solid bundle of muscle. One of her eyebrows is cocked in mock disapproval. “ _Much_ better.”

“Oh, come on, May,” Sitwell whines. “Be fair. You can’t take her away from us just because she’s a _girl_.”

Maria makes a snap decision. 

“Oh yes, she can.” To soften the blow a little – who knows what office politics vortex she might be getting sucked into here -- she adds with a smile, “Next time, gentlemen. Thanks.” 

She follows the other woman to an empty table by the window. 

“All that testosterone gives me a headache.” Her new table mate holds out her hand. “May. Melinda May. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

Maria introduces herself as she takes her seat. 

“How come everyone here knows I’m new? This is a big place; surely people don't know everybody.” 

May smirks. 

“We’re all trained spies, and you’re still taking it all in, looking to see whether and where you fit in. You’ll need to perfect that ‘ _I don’t give a fuck, it all counts towards my pension’_ look. Also, no one ever orders the meatloaf.”

Maria gives the grey-brown square on her plate a closer look, shrugs and digs in. It tastes roughly like a hockey puck that’s been lost in some guy’s jockstrap for a year, but she’ll be damned if she’ll admit that. May flashes her an appreciative grin, and waits for Maria to make the next conversational move. 

“So how long have you been at S.H.I.E.L.D.?” seems like a safe topic. 

“Two years,” May replies. “Seems like thirty sometimes, especially when you have to deal with people like Garrett and Rumlow. Some day you’ll be grateful I rescued you from that table.” 

Maria ingests this comment like she does the ~~hockey puck~~ meatloaf; she doesn’t doubt that May means it, but she’ll make her own judgment down the road, thank you very much. 

But intel on colleagues is always useful, and May seems ready to dish. 

“What about the other one? Sitwell? He seems okay.” 

May shrugs and bites into her croissant, watching as a storm of pastry flakes settles on her black uniform. 

“Damn,” she says, brushing them off. “My husband always manages to eat those in one bite, no fallout. I need to practice. Sitwell? Spends too much time with Garrett and his clique; they’ve started to rub off on him. When he forgets that he’s supposed to be an asshole, he’s okay. He runs the S.H.I.E.L.D. betting pool.” 

Maria is intrigued and appalled in equal measure. 

“Betting pool?” 

“Who sleeps with whom, will Coulson ever _not_ wear a tie, can you make Barton miss one of his shots, that sort of thing. Harmless fun. Only person ever to make money is Sitwell, but HR thinks it’s good for morale or something, so they let it go.” 

 _Coulson. Barton_. People interesting enough for others to make bets about them.  Management, willing to overlook the breaking of rules for the greater good. _Building block intel._  

“So what brings you to S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Apparently, May has decided it’s her turn to ask questions. “Covert agency, off the government grid, classified mandate – not everyone’s cup of tea.” 

Having made enough of a point with the meatloaf, Maria pushes the plate away and starts to cut up her apple instead. 

“The recruiter made it sound like more fun than the military. Fieldwork meets science and tech. Plus, I doubt I’d ever have made it to Captain in the Navy. Too much male competition. Basically, I came for a change of scenery, and maybe a career.” 

May shakes her head.

“Well, if you can survive Doreen’s meatloaf, you’ll do just fine here. Hey, Hand!” 

May waves at a dark-haired woman with thick glasses, who is heading towards the conveyor belt in the corner. 

“Victoria, I want you to meet Maria Hill. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s latest recruit. Naval intelligence. Former.” 

Hand gives Maria a critical look over the dirty dishes on her tray. 

“Navy? Well, given the aircraft carrier idea Fury is masturbating over, I suppose that makes sense.” 

And with that cryptic remark she heads off; Maria stares after her for a few seconds. High heels, nylons, calves that could kick a man to Kingdom Come. May follows her eyes. 

“They don’t let the fuzzy girly type in here. I think it’s the PC-001.  Did they make you do that, and did you write something snarky?”

No point denying it. May nods sagely. 

“Knew it. My husband does the psych evals for new recruits; one day I’ll get him to tell me what that one does, besides maybe confirm that the S in S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for ‘sexist’.” 

Maria slurps the last of her milk through the straw – she should have gotten chocolate – and looks at the clock. 

“Gotta go,” she says, grabbing her tray. “Thanks for the rescue.” 

May gives her the thumbs up and looks out the window, where a flock of geese are staging a fly-by on their way down to the river.

 

…..

 

The Director’s office is impressive – a desk at one end and a small seating arrangement at the other, and an acre of pacing space in between. He doesn’t seem to spend much time here. Maria cannot see a single item that reflects a bit of personality. Then again, maybe that’s the point. 

Right now, Director Fury is standing by the window, looking out. He’s wearing a long leather coat; there is no coat hook in the office. What there is on his desk, though, is a stack of paperwork, with the PC-001 at the top. 

“Sir,” Maria says, just in case he’d missed her arrival. 

Fury continues to stare out the window. 

“What I don’t understand, Hill, is this,” he says eventually, as if she’d always been there, and not just arrived on the scene. “A whole city filled with people who are supposed to give a shit. And I can’t get _one_ of them to admit that there aren’t any nukes in Iraq. Seems like the whole fucking lot of them wants a war where we really don’t need one.” 

Maria has been reading the papers, of course, and watching CNN. She can’t disagree. 

“They do. Predictable, really.” 

Fury turns around and stares at her. She’d read up on him, of course, but none of the reports mention how disconcerting his one-eyes glare could be; it’s almost as if he sees right through her. 

“You know something I don’t?” he asks. 

 _Great move, Maria. Way to stay a Commander forever._ But, intriguingly, Fury seems to be actually waiting for an answer. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

“As long as politics is run by men,” she says, “you can pretty much draw a map to any given outcome. Ego, money, power. Not necessarily in that order, but always part of the topography.” 

“So you’re telling me we need more women around here?” 

She didn’t say that, but … “Diversity broadens your perspective. _Sir_.” 

Fury gives her a long, hard stare.  

"You know, when I served in Bogota, the head of the anti-narcotics office was a woman, as were about half of her staff.  When I asked why, she told me,  _'women are less corruptible.'_ Not sure what to make of that."

Maria can’t stand it anymore. If she fucked up, fine. Being fucked with, not on. 

“That's interesting.  But I’m here to find out about my assignment. Sir.” 

Doesn’t the guy ever blink? Finally, he speaks.

“My predecessor would have liked you.” 

 _Great. And I assume you don’t?_ What she says is, “That’s nice. And who was he?” 

As soon as the words leave Maria’s mouth she regrets them; she should know this, dammit. Researching Fury, but not previous directors of S.H.I.E.L.D.?   _Amateur._

“Not _he_ ,” Fury says. He stalks over to his desk, opens a drawer and takes out a framed picture. He hands it to her as if it were something precious, not to be dropped on pain of death and dismemberment. 

The picture is of a middle-aged woman, dark hair streaked with white. The handwritten note on it says: " _Nick – For Heaven's sake don’t cock this up! PC_ ".

“Peggy Carter. Took us from the SSR to S.H.I.E.L.D., with a few bumps along the way.”

Two things occur to Maria then. No, make that three:

  1. No wonder he keeps that thing in his desk, and not on it.
  2. That glass ceiling in the lobby? May just be an architectural feature.



And,

     3. _PC..._

Maria has just started to wonder how May and Hand made out with that form, when Nick Fury extends his hand. 

“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Deputy Director Hill.”

 

 


End file.
